Now I will gather no more grief; I only ask to see the sky, The budding flower, the budding leaf, And put old dreamings by, The dreams Love tortures by. For, being wise, I love no more; You, if you will, snare with those eyes Some fool who never loved before, And teach him to be wise! For why should you be wise? SPRING SONG Here’s the Spring-time, Sweet! Earth’s green gown is new, Lambs begin to bleat, Doves begin to coo, Birds begin to woo In the wood and lane; Sweet, the tale is true Spring is here again! I have been discreet All the winter through; Now, before your feet, Blossoms let me strew. Flowers, as yet, are few; Will my lady deign Take this flower or two? Spring is here again Make the year complete, Give the Spring her due! All the flowers entreat, All the song-birds sue. ’Twixt the green and blue Let Love wake and reign, Let me worship you-- Spring is here again! TOO LATE When Love, sweet Love, was tangled in my snare I clipped his wings, and dressed his cage with flowers, Made him my little joy for little hours, And fed him when I had a song to spare. And then I saw how good life’s good things were, The kingdoms and the glories and the powers. Flowers grew in sheaves and stars were shed in showers, And, when the great things wearied, Love was there. But when, within his cage, one winter day I found him lying still with folded wings, No longer fluttering, eager to be fed-- Kingdoms and powers and glories passed away, And of life’s countless, precious, priceless things Nothing was left but Love--and Love was dead! BY FAITH WITH THANKSGIVING Love is no bird that nests and flies, No rose that buds and blooms and dies, No star that shines and disappears, No fire whose ashes strew the years: Love is the god who lights the star, Makes music of the lark’s desire, Love tells the rose what perfumes are, And lights and feeds the deathless fire. Love is no joy that dies apace With the delight of dear embrace-- Love is no feast of wine and bread, Red-vintaged and gold-harvested: Love is the god whose touch divine On hands that clung and lips that kissed, Has turned life’s common bread and wine Into the Holy Eucharist. THE APPEAL All summer-time you said: “Love has no need of shelter nor of kindness, For all the flowers take pity on his blindness, And lead him to his scented rose-soft bed.” “He is a king,” you said. “That I bow not the knee will never grieve him, For all the summer-palaces receive him.” But now Love has not where to lay his head.